We spoke all night in tongues
by noctuua
Summary: Cool fingers run between his skin and the band of his sweatpants leaving goosebumps in their wake, and a shiver rattles up Clint's spine. In celebration of Jeremy Renner's birthday. Rated for smut.


_We spoke all night in tongues, in fingertips, in teeth. - __Robert Hass_

_A/N: So, I had hoped to get this up by yesterday, like before 12, but it's 2:36 am on January the 8th. Anyways, this is in celebration of Jeremy Renner's birthday which was yesterday, the 7th if you didn't know, and so I decided to write a Clintasha birthday fic, where Clint is the same age and has the same birthday as Jeremy. I'll let you decide how old Natasha is. I give you all permission to imagine you're her, because let's be real-that's what I did, ahaha. Enjoy, reviews are always appreciated, and again, happy birthday to the most beautiful, flawless man. :-)_

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Marvel._

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Long beams of sunlight caress Clint's face as they stream through the cracks in his shades. His movements are heavy and sluggish, and he uses one hand to rub the sleep from his eyes as the other crawls up his stomach to scratch at his chest.

Clint turns 42 today, at what time he's not quite sure of, but he stopped celebrating _long_ ago. Today is like any other day, although it would've been nice to wake up to a certain redhead and her mouth on his c—

Clint groans, shoving his face into his pillow. Who's he kidding, thinking that would ever—scratch that—_could_ ever happen. And with Natasha?

He turns his head to look blearily at the clock and is surprised when he reads nine o'clock. Because it's Sunday _and_ one of his only days off, he usually sleeps until he can't anymore, which is definitely not nine in the fucking morning. _Man_, he thinks, he really is getting old! Don't seniors wake up at like, seven every morning?

But he'd woken up for a reason, although he can't quite remember why. He didn't have plans, and he didn't have to pee, _so maybe it's that sound coming from your kitchen_, something whispers in the back of his mind. Clint's ears perk up and he can suddenly hear it, so obvious he's astonished he hadn't noticed before. It's a metal sound, a clanking, and he slides easily into assassin mode.

Grabbing his gun from his bed stand, Clint exits his room, his weight in the balls of his feet and his toes; he may not be up to ballerina standards, but he sure can keep quiet when he wants to. For example, when some asshole's broken into his apartment. And on his birthday.

He nears the kitchen, inching along the wall towards the doorway, but as he rounds the corner, his gun coming up to aim right at the intruder's head, a knife plunges into the wooden door frame right next to his head with an audible _thwack_.

A sultry, "good morning", jerks Clint from his moment of shock and he blinks a few times before his jaw goes slack and he lowers the gun, clicking the safety on.

"Natasha?" he gasps confusedly, because the redhead is standing in the middle of his kitchen wearing red heels and his "Kiss the Chef" apron that barely reaches her mid-thigh. That's it. And she's baking.

"Happy birthday, hawk boy," she says grinning, perfect teeth bared. "I hope you're hungry."

The smell reaches him belatedly and he realizes she's making pancakes and eggs. He hadn't known she could cook.

When she turns back towards the counter, Clint's eyes are immediately drawn to her perfectly rounded ass, with not a tan line in sight. The glass he's about to place on the table slips from his fingertips and clatters onto the table, its contents sloshing onto the table and floor.

Natasha glances at him over her shoulder, her brow raised curiously. Clint attempts to adjust his sweatpants to hide his growing erection, and the quirk of her delectable lips turns his ears red at the tips.

As he leans across the table to grab a napkin, he catches the pink of Natasha's tongue as it darts out to moisten her lips, the sight of his sweatpants slung so low on his hips sending a shiver through her.

A groan tries to crawl up her throat and out of her mouth but she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip instead, her pupils growing. She can see the outline of Clint's ribs and the curve of his back, the way his muscles glide beneath his skin. She's never seen anything so beautiful.

"Stop," she commands, her voice coming out too harshly, too desperately.

Clint freezes, looking back at her.

"I'll get it," she says after clearing her throat, a hungry glint in her eyes.

The chair creaks as he sits back, his gaze steadied on her, watching her every move.

She grabs a towel from the counter and approaches him slowly, bending forward and placing a gentle hand on his knee. The way she's positioned, he can see straight down the front of the apron and he's hard pressed to avert his eyes.

Rather than squatting to wipe at the juice on the floor, Natasha kneels, both knees hitting the floor with a dull thud, and Clint breathes harshly through his nose, thinking of all the ways he can kill a man with his pinky. He runs out of ways and starts to think about Fury's eye patch.

Natasha can tell he's focusing his attention on anything but her, so she digs her nails into the thigh her hand is resting on and a smug smile graces her face as his eyes shoot to hers, her tits, her knees, and then back to her eyes.

Clint's imagined her in this position more times than he cares to admit, and they're so close right now he can hear the shakiness of her breathing, can see the trembles that wrack through her shoulders at their close proximity and the small beads of sweat that glide down the red tendrils that stick to her neck. He clenches the material of his pants in his fists to keep from ruining the moment.

His heart races and he's sure Natasha can hear it from where she's kneeling.

"Can I help you with that?" he asks, his voice cracking as he nods at the spill.

"No," she replies, her voice husky and low, rough around the edges, but there's a playfulness in her eyes that he recognizes, "But I can help _you_."

Cool fingers run between his skin and the band of his sweatpants and a shiver rattles up Clint's spine. Before he can comprehend what she's doing, Natasha's managed to slide his pants over his thighs and down to his ankles, and the way she's staring at his dick has got him inching forward ever so slightly.

She licks her lips and rakes her nails up and down his thighs, looking up at him through her lashes. As she leans forward, lips parting, Clint grabs her chin and forces her to look at him.

"You sure, Tasha?" he asks her, and she can see the question in his eyes.

She nods curtly and brushes his hand aside, and then she's wrapping her plump lips around the head of his cock and sinking down the entire length. Clint can feel when he enters her throat and when she swallows around him, it's all he can do not to come right away. It feels like heaven and he thinks if this is what dying feels like, he'll go gladly.

It's as if she's trying to devour him whole, suck the life out of him, and Clint finds his fingers tangling in her hair as she glides back up his shaft, sucking her cheeks in and dragging the flat of her tongue along the vein on the underside of his cock. She flicks the tip of her tongue against the lip where the head and the shaft connect, and then swirls circles over his sensitive tip, lapping at the precum that's accumulated.

The sight of her head bobbing up and down on his cock is killing him, his hands sunken into her hair, nails massaging her scalp encouragingly, and when she brings one of her hands up to massage his balls, his fingers clench causing a sharp pain to lance through her head and she groans as she takes him into her throat again.

He thrusts into her mouth a few times, the chair creaking under his weight and she claws at one of his thighs, her hand sliding behind him to dig the fingernails into the flesh of his ass. Clint hisses through his teeth and she adds more pressure to his balls with her other hand, using the heel of her palm to knead them.

There's tension building in his spine and he can feel the warmth spreading through his legs. It's a tingling that won't go away and he's so close, but the coil won't spring and his thigh muscles are beginning to quiver with exertion. But when Natasha uses her front teeth to gently scrape against his sensitive dick as she makes her way back up, her tongue twisting around him, milking him, the pressure explodes up his spine and through the rest of his body and it feels like there's light and energy bursting in every nerve—every cell.

His eyes squeeze shut and he swears he can see stars and it's the most fan-_fucking_-tastic blow job he's received in his life. He's still got Natasha's hair threaded between his fingers, so he loosens his grip and opens his eyes _and finds himself staring at the musty ceiling of his bedroom_, the dark brown stain in the corner still spreading.

"Fuck!" he shouts, his hands colliding with his face to dig his palms into his eyes. His chest is still heaving and he can feel the sweat that's pooled in the hollow of his collar bone, his sheets moist below him.

Clint's about to shove up and off of his bed when his groaning is interrupted by a low chuckle.

His hands drop to his sides and he realizes there's a weight between his legs that he should've noticed before. When he cranes his neck to look up, his view is blocked by a mass of red and then his view is Natasha, naked and kneeling between his thighs, rubbing at her swollen lips, her hair messy and altogether, she looks like she's been thoroughly fucked.

Clint's eyebrows jump into his hairline and his jaw flaps momentarily, like a fish out of water. When he finds the right words, his voice is shaken and to his embarrassment, he's got a stutter.

"D-did you just—"

Natasha can feel him quivering beneath her.

"You're a very lively sleeper," she says offhandedly, as if she hasn't just sucked him off in his sleep.

"Tasha," he gasps.

She drops into a crawling position, her hands on either side of his head, trapping him, and her red locks tickle his cheeks.

"Happy birthday, hawk boy," she murmurs, her voice riddled with mirth, and then she's silencing him with her lips and he can taste himself on them and her tongue and it sends waves of pleasure shooting down his spine and through his limbs. He wraps his arms around her shoulders, crushing her body to his, and the way she melds into him is so perfect, so right.

"I've wanted to do that for ages," she says, grinning against his lips and then sighing further into him.

Clint can't agree more. He thinks he'll start celebrating his birthday again, as long as a certain red head is there to do it with him.


End file.
